“Nuts. Her killer really cleaned up after himself.”
“He’s smart enough. If he had sex with her, he used a condom and left no trace on the bed—or anywhere.”
“There were towels missing,” I said.
“So he put them on the bed to protect the spread. Huh. Possible.”
“What else?” I asked.
Claire told me that she had sent out the sexual assault kit and the blood samples, that there was zero chance that results would come back until after the weekend—if then.
“We’re looking at weeks for the DNA. I can only ring the fire alarm so many times,” she told me, “and I’ve rung it quite a lot recently.”
I remembered the many times I’d stood in this room with Claire, using logic and forensic pathology to puzzle out what had happened to the person on the table who couldn’t tell us anything.
Claire waggled her fingers in front of my face.
“You still with me, Linds?”
I snapped out of my thoughts and said, “Absolutely. We have to wait for the sexual assault kit to come back.”
“Correct,” she said. “But I’m not done here. Not by far.”
CHAPTER 32
“Okay,” Claire said. “CSI found nothing at all on the shirt. It’s a common brand, all cotton, size 2XL, available for purchase in twenty thousand stores all over the country and online, priced between twelve and twenty bucks, made in China.”
I sighed, long and loudly.
Claire didn’t notice. She said, “The shirt hadn’t been worn until Carly’s dead body was dressed in it.”
“Great,” I said sadly.
If the doer had a new shirt handy, it pointed to a premeditated crime, either specific to Carly or in general if a choice opportunity arose.
“And what about Carly’s own clothes that were left on the motel room floor?”
“They were worn, but there was no blood or dirt or anything that would lead anywhere. I do have something for you, though.”
“Please, Claire, make my day.”
She smiled. She was enjoying herself. But hell, this was a rough job, and if someone had to oversee twelve hundred autopsies a year, best if it was someone who enjoyed her work.
“I’ve taken photos of her injuries,” said Claire, “including these.”
She pulled down the sheet, exposing Carly’s torso. She had large bruises on her body from chest to hips, and there was more: a half dozen discrete wounds in Carly’s flesh, three inches long, like knife wounds in a random pattern.
Claire said, “She was beaten over a couple days’ time, but these wounds are fresh. She’s got similar wounds on her back and buttocks.”
“What the hell are they?”
Claire said, “I’m asking the same question. The incisions are shallow and were made by an unusual kind of blade. Check this out. There’s no collateral bruising at the point of entry.”
“Meaning?”
“The blade was beveled and double-edged and super sharp. I can’t yet identify the implement—that’s good. It wasn’t any kind of knife I’ve seen. So if you find the weapon, you may find the killer.”
“Were the cuts made premortem or post?”
“She was alive,” Claire told me. “And that also supports Clapper’s opinion that this body was washed. Even though these cuts were shallow, Carly had to have bled. But there’s no sign of blood.
“That said, keep in mind that these wounds didn’t kill her, Lindsay. She was strangled. That’s a man’s crime.”
“So, unofficially …” I said, prompting her.
“Unofficially, manner of death: homicide. Cause of death: asphyxiation by manual strangulation. I’ll call you,” she said. “Right after I do the internal post.”
CHAPTER 33
Claire’s receptionist elbowed the door open and said, “Sergeant, Inspector Conklin called. He’s waiting upstairs for you.”
I told Claire, “Thanks. Talk to you later,” and left the ME’s office, taking the breezeway to the back entrance of the Hall’s garnet-colored, marble-lined lobby. An elevator was waiting, and I rode it to four and then walked the short, brightly lit corridor to the homicide squad.
Conklin was sitting behind his desk—and Cindy sat behind mine. Even at that time, before they’d gotten together, there was chemistry between my friend and my partner, known by women in and around the Hall as Inspector Hottie. I’d liked seeing it.
Cindy said, “What can you tell me?”
It was quite bold of Cindy—coming to our house, taking my chair, making demands. She’s infuriating and funny, often at the same time.
I smiled and said, “This is absolutely all I can tell you, Cindy. You can say that the deceased is, in fact, Carly Myers and that the authorities are looking for anyone who may have seen her or her killer.”
“Cause of death?”
“Still undetermined. Claire is doing the post now.”
“So, a positive ID of Carly Myers, deceased. What about the other two women? By my calculations, they’re still missing on day four.”
“We’re working on it. All of us.” I waved my hand to encompass the squad room, which was largely empty.
“Okay. I’ll do another blog post about the missing women.”
“Good. Thanks. And here’s something we haven’t released,” I said. “Nancy Koebel was a housekeeper at the Big Four. She disappeared. Can you say on your blog that the SFPD needs to get in touch with her? She may have seen or heard something regarding this crime.”
I spelled Koebel’s name, hoping that going public with that wouldn’t drive her further underground.
Cindy closed her tablet and gathered her possessions, saying, “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll speak to you later. That means both of you.”
She waved in our direction and headed out.
Conklin followed her with his eyes.
“Back to work, Tiger,” I said to him.
I filled him in on what I’d learned from Claire and Clapper.
“First and worst, Richie. No trace evidence has been found on Carly’s body. Clapper thinks and Claire agrees that the body was washed to destroy evidence. There’s also nothing of interest on Carly’s phone or laptop as far as Clapper can tell. Blood and DNA swabs are out for analysis.”
“Shit. The killer rolled up his trail,” said Rich. “He threw her in the shower before he strung her up.”
“Yep. And washed her down with the freebie shampoo. The shirt she was wearing is a generic men’s cotton shirt that could have been purchased anywhere. Claire is positive—unofficially—that Carly was strangled manually. The electric cord wasn’t the murder weapon.”
“It was window dressing?” Conklin asked.
“Exactly,” I said. “A distraction. A feint. An artistic touch.”
I told my partner the Claire-stumping news that Carly had been cut in a dozen places front and back with a sharp unidentified blade that left an unusually shaped slit. I showed him the photo. “Narrow on both ends and broader in the center.”